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Sunday Afternoon
by Camerin Courtney
September 8, 2004
It's Sunday morning and I'm sitting in the last chair in the back row of my church sanctuary. For some reason, this is as far as I'm willing to come today. I woke in a bit of a funk, dragging myself out of bed, bribing myself with promises of hot coffee, then driving into the church parking lot late.
After the service, I don't see any of my increasingly infrequent lunch buddies, so I drive home alone. As I pass through pristine neighborhoods, I realize that while we were inside praising God, the day morphed from cloudy and cool to absolute perfection. I have things to accomplish, but any intelligent human being knows the right thing to do is take advantage of this beautiful day.
Once home, I call a few friends to see if any of them are up for a walk or some other form of spontaneous outdoor fun. No one's home, so I leave messages, eat a quick lunch, and feel the afternoon stretch before me like an endless empty horizon. I sit in my apartment feeling enveloped in its emptiness, realizing I'm suffering from the Sunday afternoon lonelies again.
I should have seen them coming, really. I've been in one of those friend-shifts lately. One of my close friends moved out of state six months ago. Another is a few months into a new dating relationship. Another is swamped with work and has gone "underground" again. There are other friends, of course, but not that closest ring—the kind you can call up on a beautiful day for impromptu fun.
As I feel myself welling up with tears, I ask God to meet me in this shifting friendship landscape. "This is your day," I tell him. "Please redeem it somehow. I wish I had more to bring you than loneliness and tears. But I need you to meet me here just the same."
Then I head to my fallback weekend routine—camping out at the local coffee shop to work on a freelance writing assignment. I only last an hour before I'm enticed by the sunshine outside and the sign I can barely make out across the street advertising an outdoor art fair in a park near my apartment. I pack up and go.
Wandering through booths selling wooden sculptures, handmade jewelry, and photographs of nearby Chicago and faraway exotic locales, I feel some of my anxiety ease. I breathe deeply and smile at passing strangers, occasionally chuckling to myself at snippets of overheard conversations.
Before I head back to my car to drive home, I notice empty benches across the park's picturesque lake. Ten minutes later I'm walking out of my apartment, book in hand, to those benches. When I finally select the perfect one to perch on, I sit and take in the amazing scenery. Sunlight glimmering on the quiet lake, making it sparkle intermittently like Christmas lights. A small flock of stately looking geese swimming lazy circles. A grandpa and grandson fishing across the way. As if on cue, a local church's bells toll out the new hour.
I'm only a page into my book when that flock of geese takes off, all honking, flapping, and splashing. I can't help but applaud the impressive display. A man with a cocker spaniel ambles by and wishes me a polite "Good day." At the art fair across the lake, a saxophone trio has taken the stage.
My book takes me far away to the neighborhoods of Havana, where the author traveled to take a class about Cuban art and artists. I'm jealous for the strong communities she describes, especially in the poorest neighborhoods where people practically live on their porches and are so cramped in their small living quarters that they're literally in each other's space. I think of the impressive yet imposing yards of the homes I passed on the way here and wonder if we're really better off.
A child's laughter echoes across the lake and prompts me to look up from my book. I'm suddenly struck by the obvious: God has met me here—in the bustling fair across the lake, the fishermen and fisherboys, the melancholy melodies of the saxophones, the shimmering lake reflecting the dazzling sunlight, the friendly passersby. I breathe it all in and concentrate on being truly present in this moment, in relishing right now.
As I take a lap around the lake before heading home, I pass a woman sitting on another bench who says, "I could just fall asleep here," as she flashes a sun-drunk smile. I smile back and mumble a generic greeting about the amazing day. But inside I'm thinking, I think I just woke up here, revived from my funk and reminded afresh by the sun, neighbors, and clear blue sky that my God promised never to leave or forsake me. That he answers our prayers, even a simple lonely muttered "help."
As I round the final bend and leave the dreamy scene, I notice a lone goose flying lazily in the open sky, against a backdrop of visible sun rays emanating out of one perfect cloud. I pause to watch for a moment, then finally, seemingly with joy, she soars away home. I smile and follow suit.
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Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
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